


Castigatio

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 16:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You’re lucky you’re pretty enough for a good lay, because that’s all you’re fucking good at.”





	Castigatio

Kyle grabs him by the neck, by his collar, and shoves him at the bed, watches as he stumbles and falls into the comforter with a thud. Will scrambles to arrange himself, lest he piss Kyle off more. 

“Take off your fucking clothes,” Kyle barks, cold and harsh. Will winces, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. 

With shaky hands, Will unbuttons the top few buttons until he gives up and pulls it over his head the rest of the way. He can feel Kyle’s gaze on him, raking over his skin in hot judgement. It’s easier to shove his pants off, kicks them off with his socks at the same time. 

He chances a look at Kyle then, but immediately regrets it. Kyle glares at him, glances at Will’s groin, pointed. Will takes the hint, hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs and tugs those off too. He isn’t fancy about it but he doesn’t give attitude either. 

He keeps his head down, eyes lowered, even when he feels Kyle’s scrutiny on him, even when he hears and feels Kyle come closer. He doesn’t look, even as Kyle traces a hand over his jawline, brushes a piece hair back behind his ear. 

He doesn’t look until Kyle’s fingers at his neck, busily working at the clasp on his collar.

Will looks up so fast, doesn’t dare to pull away but alarmed nonetheless. “What are you doing?” 

“What do you think I’m doing?” Kyle spits back. He finally manages to get it off then, starts rolling it up to pocket. “Dumb bitch,” he says, more to himself than to Will. It stings that much more. 

“Sir?” Will tries, unsure. The fear is audible, shaking in his voice. Kyle doesn’t even look at him, busy putting his--  _ the _ collar away. 

When Kyle finally gets around to him again, he grips Will’s chin and holds him there, harsh, fingers digging into his skin. “Don’t call me that anymore.”

“Kyle,” Will says then, desperately. The panic rises in his chest and he can feel his eyes start to water. “Kyle,” he repeats, lost.

“I’m not your Sir anymore,” Kyle says, slow, like he thinks Will won’t be able to understand otherwise. “ _ You _ decided to whore around,  _ you _ broke our contract. You may refer to me as ‘Mr. Dubas’ from now on. Is that clear?”

Will feels all the sounds and feelings around him diluted, can’t focus on anything but ringing that won’t stop. He feels the heat on his face, the tears in his eyes, can’t seem to focus on anything else. His chest hurts with the guilt, the ache, and he can’t-- he doesn’t-- he--

“I said,” Kyle grits out, yanks on Will’s chin, “is that fucking clear?”

It snaps Will back, the world warping right back into high definition, nearly gives him whiplash. “Yes,” he manages, barely recognizing his voice, “yes, Mr. Dubas.”

Kyle holds his chin, angles him this way and that to get a good luck at him. Even as the tears spill from the corner of Will’s eyes, even as the trail down his cheeks and collect along Kyle’s bony fingers. Will feels every trace of them, is hyper-focused on the feeling, the trail of them hot with his shame. 

He doesn’t even notice Kyle reel one hand back, doesn’t even see it coming when Kyle backhands him, slaps him so hard his head snaps to the side. 

“Fuck,” Will lets slip, but immediately wishes he could take it back. His cheek is smarting, prickly hot with the burn of the impact. Kyle grabs his jaw again, mean this time, makes him look at him. 

“What was that?” Kyle squints at him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Will starts, a panicked mantra involuntary from his lips. “I’m sorry, si-- Mr. Dubas, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?” Kyle traces his lips with his thumb, slow and deliberate. He shoves it in Will’s mouth without notice, presses down on Will’s tongue. He lets him. “You sorry about slutting it up with half the league, too?”

It’s deliberate, the way Kyle asks while he’s pressing down on Will’s tongue and shoving more fingers in his mouth, too. He doesn’t give Will room to talk; the only communication allowed is the way Will blinks up at him with sad, teary eyes. Remorseful, sure, but mostly filled with fear. It’s exhilarating.

“You know how bad that makes  _ me _ look, right? Can’t even keep an eye on my own fucking boy.” Kyle starts to move his fingers, then, shoving them in and out of Will’s mouth, doesn't care when Will starts to gag on them. “Are you  _ trying _ to undermine me? Fucking  _ slut _ can’t even control yourself.”

Kyle groans then, frustrated. Will doesn’t know what comes over him but he doesn’t recognize it. Doesn’t recognize it when Kyle yanks his fingers back and hits him again, clear across the other cheek. Will whimpers, bites his lip to keep himself in check.

“God, why are you such a whore, huh, Will? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Will tries to say no, he really tries, but the words won’t form and his throat won’t make any sounds. He shakes his head, vigorous, but it’s not enough for Kyle, never enough for Kyle. 

“Stupid, stupid bitch,” Kyle tuts. He grabs a fistful of Will’s hair and uses it to tug his head back, painfully arched all the way back. Forces him to look at him. “You’re lucky you’re pretty enough for a good lay, because that’s all you’re fucking good at.”

And that’s-- Will can feel his next breath, ragged, stuck in his chest. Can feel the swirling rise from his stomach and into his chest. His cheeks are wet, really wet, now, and he only then realizes he’s crying in full now. Can’t even control it. 

“Pathetic,” Kyle says, shakes his head when he wipes the tear tracks away. “Fucking pathetic.”

Kyle shoves him back down, tugs at him until he’s on his stomach, ass on display. Will keeps still, tries to be good, tries to prove that he’s still good. He hears the rustling of Kyle working at his clothes, the clank of his belt buckle, the slide of the leather pulled free. 

What Will doesn’t expect is the whistle of it in the air, the too-loud slap of leather against skin, nor the white hot pain that stripes across his ass.

Kyle’s never hit him like this, Kyle’s never hurt him, Kyle’s never--

It happens again, then again, then again.

“Red,” Will hears himself yelling, doesn’t even realize it until he hears the words out of his own mouth. “Red, red, red!”

Kyle doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause. “No,” he says, between swings. “This isn’t a scene, Will. This is a punishment.” He brings the leather down again, hardest this time, overlapping an existing red stripe. Tears fill Will’s eyes instantly, the pain sharp and raw and awful. “You don’t get to tell me when to stop. You’re going to fucking take it because this is your fault. These are your consequences.” And he brings it down, again and again and again.

It’s kind of a blur, both literally because of the tears clouding Will’s vision and figuratively because of the swirling of awful thoughts in Will’s head. He doesn’t know when the belting stops, doesn’t know how he ends up shoved face-first into their--  _ Kyle’s _ bed, knees under him to get his ass up. He doesn’t know when his hands get tied behind his back, doesn’t know when Kyle grabs the lube.

He zones back in when Kyle’s three fingers in, working him open too-fast and rushed. It’s not enough, it’s not going to be enough, and Will already feels the phantom ache right alongside the current ache of the stretch. But he doesn’t dare say anything, not like this, anyway. He can take it, so he’ll take it.

Kyle makes a point of making sure Will sees him search for a condom in the bedside drawer. Makes a point to drag out the process of procuring it and ripping it open and rolling it on. He makes sure Will watches him do it, makes sure he knows exactly what he’s implying.

“Since I don’t know where you’ve been and what’s been up here,” Kyle still says, extra cruel, just to throw it in Will’s face that much more. “Don’t know what I might catch, can’t be too careful.”

Will doesn’t make a single sound. Not a peep.

Kyle isn’t careful and is anything but kind. He shoves in like he wants it to hurt, like he wants it to burn and he wants it to keep aching so Will has to remember it. As if the bruises tomorrow won’t be enough. As if they nakedness on his neck won’t be enough.

Once he’s in, he’s in. He doesn’t give Will time to adjust, doesn’t pace it to warm Will up. He goes for it from the get go, snaps his hips so hard they slap against Will’s ass in sharp sounds that fill the entire room, fill Will’s ears and his head and his thoughts. 

Will keeps his face buried in the sheets, lets the linen absorb his shouts and his sobs and his audible pain. He soaks the fabric in his tears, crying enough to get snot on the sheets, too. It hurts, hurts his ass, hurts his heart. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to protest. He takes his punishment, his consequences, and lets Kyle use him as he pleases, even if that means letting him take his anger out like this. 

“Do they fuck you like this?” Kyle growls against his skin. “I bet you like it, I bet you like it rough like you’re nothing but a living fuck toy for them.” Kyle goes harder then, and Will can feel his fury in every thrust. “Why did I even bother fucking you sweet, huh? Why did I even bother caring? Wasted,” he spits, cruel, even as his voice starts to crack. 

It’s not  _ easy _ , but it’s  _ easier _ to let it happen, to tune out of it and let Kyle have his way. To let Kyle take him,  _ re _ -take him, maybe. To give Kyle that control and for Will to accept his punishment in full. These are the consequences of his actions, Will reasons, so he should suck it up and take it.

Take it, he does. 

Kyle gets him there, twice, even. Gets a hand on his dick and pumps him just the way he likes. Will doesn’t want to come, not with tears dried on his face and every inch of him hurting with his punishment. But Kyle makes him, forces it out of him. And then he keeps going, keeps pushing and pushing and does it again, even through the hypersensitivity and Will’s pained protests. He still manages to tug it out of him. Just because he can.

Will can’t even be mad, he came, he fucking came  _ twice  _ so he can’t even be mad. 

“Whore,” Kyle accuses, once Will’s gotten himself messy with his own come. “Getting off on your punishment, that’s how much of a dumb slut you are.” And he shoves Will down again, just for good measure. 

Will’s never liked getting fucked after coming, has always been too sensitive for it to be anything but uncomfortable. Certainly never enjoyable. Kyle knows that, has always known that, but it doesn’t seem to matter now. Not when Will’s rim is already puffy and pink and sore, not when his dick’s shriveled up by now, beyond overworked. So Kyle continues to shove into him, two hands gripping his hips so tight they’ve probably already left bruises, layering more on now. Kyle continues to take his pleasure from him, continues to use his body, use him like nothing more than a glorified sex toy. Kyle continues to ignore his sobs, continues to ignore the hurt little sounds that escape Will’s lips every time he almost pulls out just to shove back in at full force. 

The bed shakes with the intensity of it, clangs against the wall so loud it ricochets painfully in Will’s head. He feels himself slide up the mattress, all the way until his head’s nudging up against the headboard at a weird angle every time Kyle thrusts in and in and in.

But Will still keeps quiet, doesn’t dare say a word. 

It feels like forever until Kyle starts to get close. Until his hips are erratic but the thrusts that much harder, harsher, than anything Will’s ever felt before. It’s forever until he shoves in as deep as he can go, grinds into it, coming and coming. Will is suddenly grateful for the condom, grateful he doesn’t have to clean himself out and deal with yet another reminder of his failure, his worthlessness.

Kyle isn’t nice about pulling out either, and the tug on Will’s abused rim is a whole other pain that shoots through his body, sharp. He cries out from it, hurting, but Kyle doesn’t comment, doesn’t care. 

There’s maybe about half a minute, not even enough time for Will to catch his breath, before Kyle slaps his thigh, still sore. He tugs out the knot holding his wrists together, prods at him again. “Get up and go clean yourself up. You’re fucking disgusting,” he barks at him. 

Every part of Will hurts, screams protest when he moves, but he knows he has to go, knows he can’t stay here. Knows Kyle won’t let him. So he forces himself up, winces when he stands and feels the ache settle in his ass, in his back. Kyle rolls his eyes at him, so Will keeps his head down, shuffles to the bathroom.

He showers, scrubs himself red, but nothing he does makes him feel clean.

 


End file.
